Ronja did not remember attacking the glass. She only remembered the pain that followed, the tiny shards that stuck out from her bleeding knuckles like jagged peaks. There was no epiphany, only instinct. She took one of the larger fragments in her hand, brought it to her throat.
Do it. Do it. Do it.
Ronja squeezed her eyes shut, salt tears crawling down her cheeks. I will not be your weapon, she thought. I will not be your weapon. Her hand trembled violently, the edge of the glass shivering against her rice paper skin.
Do it, you coward! Do it!
The smell of sulfur tickled her nose. She peeled her eyelids open, her grip loosening around the glass. Hot blood oozed from the undersides of her fingers. Drowsiness rolled over her. Her knees buckled and she crashed to the ground. No, she tried to whisper. The air was choked with white smoke. Her vision leaked away. She released the shard of glass. It shattered on the floor as her consciousness wilted. No.
Ronja awoke lying on her back in a different cell identical to the first. Her hands throbbed, crusted with her own blood. The shards of glass had been removed, but the wounds had not been cleaned or bandaged. She shifted on the hard floor. The telltale clink of metal chain links scraped her eardrum. She looked down, already knowing what she would find. Metal cuffs were locked around her wrists and ankles, chaining her to the ground. She knew she could stand, there was just enough slack for her to make it to the toilet. But there was no energy left in her blood. There was no will.
There was nothing.
She was no one.
Not Ronja.
Not an Anthemite
Not the Siren.
No one.
When she closed her eyes, she felt the girls in the glass watching her.
55: Prayer
Roark
The first night, Roark did not stop moving. He paced the perimeter of his cell like a caged animal, running the pads of his fingers across the concrete in search of a weak point that did not exist. He tried the door next. It was welded iron. He did not truly expect to escape, but movement was the only thing that kept his mind from falling into chaos. If he stopped, reality would catch up to him.
Samson was dead. His friend, his comrade. They had known one another since they were children. Fought together, mourned together, laughed together. How many times had they played music together at jams? How many pranks had they pulled on the girls when they were young?
The Conductor was dead. He had not really been alive for some time. The thought made Roark sway. So many years of fighting, raging against a man who was nothing more than a puppet held aloft by the echoes of The Music.
How long? How long had they been at war with a ghost?
Henry Romancheck. His best friend, his brother, was alive, a shell of himself. A slave to Maxwell and The New Music. He would rather he was dead.
Ronja. Her name bubbled up on his lips like a prayer. He bit it back, afraid it would vanish if he released it. The image of her kneeling on the marble, a cruel bit in her mouth, her blood and the blood of Maxwell mixing with her war paint, was seared into his brain. He knew it would never leave him.
He knew he would never stop trying to get her back.
The days stretched and warped. The guards delivered his food and drink through a slot in the door. They did not speak to him, no matter how he egged them on. No one came to question him. Of course not. He and the others had not been imprisoned because of the information they possessed, but so Ronja would follow orders.
And for that reason, they would be kept alive.
Roark was asleep when the door clicked open. At first he did not notice. The crack of light that fell across his face felt like a dream, distant. It took a human voice to pry him from his stupor.
“Hey, fella.”
Roark launched to his feet, his fists raised before him, his back foot pivoted to secure his stance. The door was only opened a crack, spilling bluish light across the concrete floor. A dark eye peeked through the narrow opening.
“Jonah,” Roark spat.
Jonah pushed the door open further, ignoring the venom in his voice. Surprise lanced through Roark. The Tovairin was dressed from head to toe in night-dark furs. Two broadswords were strapped to his back, rising above the back of his head like horns. In his hand was a portable communicator. It looked familiar.
“That radio,” Roark growled. “Where did you get it?”
Jonah tossed the communicator at him. He caught it by the tips of his fingers. He flipped it over. His stomach vaulted. A tiny E was scratched into the back of the metal.
“I swiped it from the Arexian when Maxwell’s men converged on the warehouse,” Jonah explained. “Thought it might come in handy.”
“How’s that?” Roark asked through gritted teeth.
Jonah shrugged. “Had a feeling Maxwell might not pay up. Radio your people, tell them I am getting you and Alezandri out of here.”
“Alezandri. You mean Ronja?”
Jonah nodded, just a quick dip of his chin. “Yes, Ronja.”
“What about the others?”
“No time, I’m only here for Alezandri and I need you for a little backup getting out of here.”
“No,” Roark snapped. “Absolutely not. I will not leave my family, neither will Ronja.”
Jonah shook his head. “Ronja is fiested. If you want her to live, you’ll do exactly what I say. Now, call your people, tell them I am taking you to Tovaire, and you’ll be back with reinforcements as soon as you can. I am not going to let that bastard Maxwell invade Tovaire or any other damn country on this godforsaken planet.”
Roark shook his head slowly. “How do I know this is not a trap?”
The Tovairin cocked his head to the side, observing him with oil-dark eyes. “Do you really have another choice?”
Roark glared at Jonah, then brought the familiar radio to his lips. He rolled the dial with his thumb, switching it to Channel 3. He pressed the button on the face of the device. Static blossomed. “This is Drakon,” he murmured. “Does anyone copy?”
Silence. Jonah shifted uneasily in the doorframe, checking over his shoulder for signs of life in the hallway.
“This is Drakon,” Roark tried again. “Does anyone copy?”
Silence.
“This is Drakon,” he tried again. “Does anyone read me? The Siren has fallen. I repeat, the Siren has fallen.”
“Drakon!”
Roark felt his heart lurch. He cupped the radio to his mouth. “Harpy?” he breathed. “Is that you?”
“What the hell is going on up there?” Ito demanded, fear coursing through her voice. “Where have you been?”
“Harpy, the Siren has fallen. Nymph, Chimera, Medusa, and Mouse have been made. They’re below the palace. I’ll get the Siren. Blow the Belly.”
“Roark, what are you — ”
Roark clicked the radio off. Before he could stash it in his pants pocket, Jonah yanked it from his hand and set it on the concrete.
“Wait!”
The Tovairin crushed the device beneath the heel of his boot.
56: Into the Stars
When the door to her cell opened, the prisoner did not react. She registered the flush of fresh air, the stir of voices over her head. They meant nothing to her. She kept her eyes sealed shut. She was not even sure she remembered how to open them.
Ronja.
The name pricked her brain. It was familiar. Where had she heard it before? The prisoner stirred feebly in her skin. Her chains clanked hollowly.
Ronja, love. Come with me.
The prisoner smiled, her first smile in what felt like years. Death had finally come for her. She had stopped drinking, stopped eating, hoping to call him. His voice was in her ear, his hot breath on her face. He had taken her once before, in a different life.
We’re out of time. Carry her.
Time. The prisoner frowned. What an unwelcome intrusion. Time implied attachment, purpose. There was no time, not anymore. The world heaved. Her oblivion til
ted. White lights erupted behind her sealed eyelids, stars spinning overhead. It was like they were dancing. It was like they were alive.
Maybe the stars are alive after all.
The prisoner twitched. Her mouth curved around the words, straining against the bit that was at once vividly present.
“Ronja, can you hear me?” That voice. She knew it. It did not belong to Death. “Give me that key, now.”
Pressure at the back of her head. Then, release. The iron crown lifting from her matted curls. The bar sliding out from beneath her tongue. She ran it over her cracked lips, tasting the rust caked there.
“Ronja, love, I’m here.” The voice was desperate, raw. Loving.
“Ro — ark,” the prisoner rasped. All she wanted was to see him. His face would heal her. She struggled to open her eyes. She let out a sob of frustration when she found she could not. It was like her lids were sealed with dried wax.
“Yes, love. Yes.”
“My name … what is it?”
“Ronja. Your name is Ronja. You are the Siren. You are my world.”
“Ronja … ” the prisoner repeated. “My name is Ronja.”
“Yes,” Roark repeated. “Yes.”
Another voice struck her. “Westervelt, we have to go. Now.”
“Help me get these shackles off her.”
Ronja faded into the stars.
57: Exile
Ronja woke to the smell of salt and rain. The world heaved steadily, as if it were breathing with her. Her eyelids cracked. She shut them quickly. The light was almost too much to bear.
“Ronja.”
The girl shifted her head to the side. Stiff fabric crinkled beneath her head. A pillow. She was resting on a pillow. Perhaps she had died after all.
“Ronja, open your eyes.”
The gentle command ignited something deep in her chest, flooding her with energy. She opened her eyes. At first there was nothing but whiteness. Then, slowly, the blank slate began to recede, unveiling her surroundings. She lay on a comfortable cot in a cramped, wooden room. A single oil lamp hung from the low ceiling and a round window displayed a gray sky.
Roark sat on a wooden chair inches from her bed. Warmth flooded her body as she drank him in. His face was a patchwork of bruises. His beautiful dark eyes were shot with red. But he was alive, here, with her. That was all that mattered. He bent forward and pressed his brow to her own. Ronja reached up with a trembling hand to caress the back of his head. That was when she noticed her knuckles were wrapped in clean bandages.
“Where are we?” she whispered. She coughed. Her throat was dry as bone.
“Here,” Roark said hastily, helping her to sit up, then grabbing a canteen from the floor. He unscrewed the lid and pressed it to her lips. The cold water slithered down her throat, hitting her like a kick in the gut. But she was so thirsty. “Slowly, now,” he murmured. “Slowly.”
When she had finally finished drinking, he took the bottle away and laid her back down.
“Where are we?” Ronja asked again, her voice slightly clearer. “What happened?”
“We’re safe,” he soothed her, petting her curls gently. “We were imprisoned below the palace.”
“Georgie and Cosmin?”
“Safe, with Ito, I am sure of it.”
“How could you know?”
“I should have told you before,” he murmured. “Ito, Samson, and I worked out a backup plan in case everything went to hell.”
“You promised no more secrets,” Ronja rasped. Her eyes grew hot with unwanted tears. “You promised.”
“I was trying to protect you,” Roark said, a hint of a plea in his voice. “You had to believe we were confident in your voice.”
“Were you?”
“I still am.”
Ronja fell silent. The boy followed suit. The weight of his gaze was almost too much to bear. She cast her eyes to her knees, blanketed in cream sheets.
“What was it?” she finally asked. “The backup plan.”
Roark shook his head. “Not now. You need to rest.”
“What about Evie and the others? What about…”
Henry.
“There was no time.” Roark bowed his head, taking a deep shuddering breath. “Ito will get them out.”
“Are you sure?”
Roark did not respond.
“How long were we there?” Ronja pressed, switching the subject.
“Two weeks, give or take a few days.”
Ronja turned her eyes to the ceiling as they flooded. Two weeks. It felt like months, years, she had been trapped in that terrible room. “Where are we, now?” she finally asked.
“On a ship,” Roark replied, blinking at her with glazed eyes. “Leaving Revinia.”
“A ship?” she asked, her eyebrows flying up her forehead. That explained why the room was rocking back and forth. She had figured it was just her exhausted brain playing tricks on her. “Whose ship?”
“Mine.”
Roark and Ronja looked up, startled. The girl let out a noise of shock and fear, pulling her covers up higher as if they would protect her. Jonah stood in the low doorway, stooping slightly to avoid hitting his head. His usual arrogant smirk was gone. He looked haunted.
“Jonah helped us get out,” Roark murmured, laying a soothing hand on her knee. “He set your shoulder, too.”
As he spoke, Ronja registered the receding pain beneath her skin. “Why?”
The Anthemite fell silent, looking back at Jonah expectantly.
“Because,” Jonah said quietly. “Before The Conductor died, he recognized you. He called you by a name.”
“Alezandri,” Ronja filled in, her tone guarded. “I remember.”
“I should have noticed before,” the Tovairin went on, his eyes shifting across the planes of her face. “You look so much like him. Your eyes, your hair, even your nose.”
Ronja looked to Roark, seeking answers. His face betrayed nothing. “Like who?” she asked, turning back to Jonah.
Jonah straightened up. The top of his head nearly brushed the doorframe. “Your father, His Royal Highness, Darius Sorin Alezandri II, King of Revinia in exile.”
Epilogue: Shoreline
Ronja stood at the bow of the ship, her arms limp at her sides. The frigid ocean air stung her eyes and cheeks. She scarcely registered it. Her body was warm in the fur cloak Jonah had presented to her. “Wolf pelt,” he had told her as he laid it in her arms. “The best we have on the ship. You’ll need it when we reach Tovaire.”
The ocean bucked beneath her feet, trying to bring her to her knees. Her lips quirked into a humorless smile. She was a subtrain driver, it would take more than that to throw her off balance. Ronja craned her neck back to view the sky. It gleamed silver, like the belly of an oyster, or a Singer in the sunlight.
“TELES REN LIER PEN VAS!”
Ronja rounded on the female voice, her gray furs stirring. The mast of the sleek ship rose from the wooden deck, cutting through the low hanging clouds. Jonah was scaling the pillar with bare feet, his long hair wound into a knot at the top of his skull. His first mate, a young woman named Larkin, stood below him, her hands on her hips as she watched him climb. Her black hair was tied into two braids. Her intricate white reshkas crawled up her neck, ending in a sharp point below her jaw.
“TELES!” she shouted, cupping her warm brown hands around her mouth.
“TOVAIRE VES LAN!” Jonah called down to her, pointing out across the gray waves.
Larkin threw her hands up in the air, then turned to leave. As she did, she caught sight of Ronja watching her. The Siren raised her hand in a halfhearted greeting. The Tovairin woman gave her a curt nod, then stalked toward the stern of the ship and disappeared below deck.
Ronja returned to watching the waves. They were a few shades darker than the sky. The ocean was not as she had imagined it. It was dark and violent, unpredictable. Then, she was becoming accustomed to the unexpected.
When Ronja was finally able to
haul herself out of bed several days into their voyage, she had found her way to the captain’s quarters at the stern of the little ship. She cornered Jonah at his simple writing desk and pressed him for information on the supposed royals. “If Revinia had a royal family, someone would know about it,” she insisted, frustration and disbelief straining her vocal cords. “There would be some sort of written record.”
The image of the bare shelves of the library in the outer ring had slinked into her mind. Thumbing through the sparse volumes, the passages obscured with generous amounts of black ink.
“Someone would know about them,” she had persisted.
“Maybe someone does,” Jonah replied with a shrug. “According to your father —”
“That man is not my father.”
“According to Darius, when The Conductor overthrew King Alezandri, he tried to wipe out his entire bloodline and burned all their records. He tried to obliterate them from history.”
A troublesome bit of logic had pricked her brain. He could have used The Music to wipe the royals from our memories, too. She pushed the thought away firmly.
“Gregorio —”
“Who?” Ronja snapped.
“Ger pris netram,” Jonah sighed, rolling his eyes at the wooden slats on the ceiling. “Your grandfather, King Gregorio, was the only survivor. He was smuggled into Tovaire as an infant. The Kev Fairla have been protecting him and what remains of his bloodline ever since.”
“Why?”
Jonah rubbed his thumb and forefinger together. “We protect the Alezandri line, they fund our war with Vinta. How do you think I got this gorgeous ship?”
Ronja folded her arms over her chest, ignoring the dull pain that flared in her healing shoulder. “If Darius has been with you all these years, how the hell could he be my father?”
Jonah offered a tight smile. “That is not my story to tell, princess.”
“Convenient,” Ronja snarked. “You can’t prove a thing.”
The Tovairin shrugged again, backing away from her to attend to his duties. “Not my job to make you believe it. Just wait until you meet Darius, you’ll see.”
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